


Closet

by captain_tots



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 08:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captain_tots/pseuds/captain_tots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She has to remind herself to breathe when he's leaning in over her shoulder, or she might accidentally suffocate, and wouldn't that be something?<br/>WilliamxAnnette, PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closet

**Author's Note:**

> Written solely for my own enjoyment. Hopefully you'll like it too.  
> My characterization of the Birkin's tends to shift depending on the work.

She has to remind herself to breathe when he's leaning in over her shoulder, or she might accidentally suffocate, and wouldn't that be something? Just passing out right on the desk in front of him—God knows what he would think of that. And she feels the warmth of his skin beating down on her, and little strands of messy blonde hair hang into her peripheral vision, and she's going to breathe now. 

In. 

Out. 

Not too hard, because then he might suspect something is up, even though she's pretty sure he's the most oblivious man she's ever met. Better safe than sorry though, because if she slips up then... well, it will be embarrassing. And probably the end of her tenure as Dr. Birkin's research assistant, a title that she's been lording over all the other girls in her graduating class. 

So she sits there, all calm and collected and breathing nice and easy and not red in the face, until he has to go and ruin it by asking her a question.

“Annette? Did you hear that?” 

“Oh, um, I'm sorry! I didn't catch that last part and...” 

“Do you know where we keep the agar?” he asks, speaking very slowly, like she's a dog or stupid or something. 

And the worst is, she's got no idea where they keep it. Annette cringes.

“Uh, no. I don't. Sorry!” 

He bites down on his lower lip; she's noticed that he does that when he's thinking hard, and the skin is kind of raw where his teeth rest at, and she wonders what it would feel like to press her lips against his and the she's back to reality before he notices. 

“I should probably show you where they are. It's a bit of a walk, and God knows what you might find if you get lost down here. We might have to kill you.”

He snorts at his own joke, but she's feeling more woozy than amused. 

“Alright, if you would be so kind as to follow meeee...” He exaggerates his voice, drawling out the last syllable. She giggles slightly. 

“Alright, I got you to smile,” he says. 

“Hmm?” 

“Well, the joke about killing you didn't work, so I had to resort to embarrassing myself.”

Her cheeks are getting hot. It's not the most conventional comment, so to say, but the fact that he's trying to make her laugh is going to make her melt into the floor. 

“Okay, come on,” he says, like jokes are over and it's back down to business. She follows behind him, practically running to keep up. 

* * *

 

He opens up the door to the storage closet, and waves his arm out like he's trying to impress her. It's fairly large, there's room enough for both of them to stand side by side. The walls are covered in shelving, and hold everything from flasks to centrifuges. The door slams shut behind them.

“So, do you like being a lab assistant here, Annette?” he asks her. She's taken aback by the question.

“Um, yes. I really enjoy working with you, Dr. Birkin. Your reputation is unparalleled.” 

He smirks at her.

“Don't be a suck up.” 

“Uh, I'm so sorry, sir!” she says, blushing. 

“And don't call me sir, God.” 

She's silent for a moment.

“But you like working with me, huh?” 

She nods, frantic. He's getting really close to her face.

“That's good. Because I like working with you.”

 

* * *

She likes the way his mouth feels when he's sucking on her neck, even though she's pretty sure it's going to bruise tomorrow, she can't bring herself to care. His breath is hot and sticky on the skin between her neck and her jaw and his fingers are smeared gray from pencil graphite. They're brushing over her lab coat, pulling at buttons and leaving a smudge right over the breast pocket. 

The shelf is right up against her back, and she's scared that if she moves, she'll bring fifty flasks crashing down over her head, and then everyone will hear and come running and find Dr. Birkin and the new lab assistant making out like high school kids in the supply closet. She's blushing again, just thinking about it.

He slides one hand under her shirt, now that the lab coat has been dealt with. She gasps at the cold against her stomach.

“Shh... shh. It's okay. You want this?” 

Her whole shirt is rolled up to her bra, and he's pushing it aside, clumsy and overeager. She goes to speak, but thinks better of the idea, and nods. A glass tinkles behind her. 

She's hyperventilating now. 

He's feeling around her chest, that's the only way she knows how to describe it. It's doesn't really feel good, but it's not like she has any frame of reference for this sort of thing.

He pinches her between his thumb and forefinger, and she makes some kind of squealing noise. 

“That hurts,” she whispers. 

“Sorry.” 

He's blushing too now, and the air between them must be a thousand degrees, and she's not sure if she wants to keep doing this, but she can't very well just run out with her bra askew and her shirt pulled up, lab coat off. 

He kisses her again, and runs the offending hand through her hair, wrapping fingers through it and pulling with a light force. 

“That's good,” she exhales, the words barely getting out. 

“I really like you, Annette.” 

“I like you too...” Her voice is soft, careful. She doesn't want to upset anything, the shelves, the glassware, this precarious sort of relationship she has found herself in.

“Do you want me to fuck you, Annette?” 

She chokes on her own breath. 

“What?” she manages to sputter out. 

He's sucking on her skin again. She can feel stubble leaving it's mark. She's going to be red and purple when they're through. 

“You heard me.” He bites her neck. Her knees are going to buckle any second. 

“Right here?” she asks.

“Why not? Who's going to know?” He's got a sly smile, the smile of a man whose never been denied anything. 

“What if someone comes in?” 

“No one's going to come in,” he says, so blunt and entirely self assured.

“What if we knock something over?” It's her last protest.

“We'll buy some more Goddamn flasks.” He squeezes her ass through the lab coat and her khaki's, but she feels it all the same. 

“And if I say, 'no'?” 

His hand is resting on the small of her back now.

“Then you fix your shirt and take the agar, and we pretend this never happened.” 

“Okay,” she whispers, and unclasps her belt buckle. 

She can't see too well, but she's pretty sure he just licked his lips.

Her pants are on the floor, her shirt is still all fucked up, and he assumes responsibility for getting it off of her, fumbling around with her bra until it's undone, pulling the coat off her shoulders by it's tail. 

“You know, you're the prettiest girl who's ever worked here. The smartest too.” 

She's blushing in spite of it all. 

“The first time I saw you, with your big binders of lab reports and tables, so overeager.” He smirks and she's embarrassed by herself now. 

She doesn't know just how he wants her to feel.

“And you were wearing a white button down shirt and I could see your little red bra underneath it. I wish you wore it today.”

She's naked now. He's still dressed.

“Are you going to... uh...” 

“Shh, don't you worry about me.”

He fishes into the breast pocket of his lab coat, and he pulls out a little foil packet.

“You know how these work, Annie?”

She wonders if he always has condoms with him; if he fucks all of his lab assistants like this; if he tells them all they're the prettiest and the smartest. She feels cheated. 

But she doesn't say anything. She just shakes her head. 

“It's okay. I can teach you.” 

He hands it to her, and pulls his lab coat off, unbuttons his shirt.

“Feel better now?” he asks, once he's naked from the waist up. She nods weakly. 

“I thought you would.” 

He had her pressed even further into the shelf, and she's pretty sure she might just die now, because she's so hot and sweaty and embarrassed and fucking naked in front of this crazy prodigy scientist that cuts people up without reservation and probably fucks all the girls on staff, and... 

He's got his fingers on her somewhere she's never let someone else touch, but she knows that it's what she wants, and he's going to give it to her. 

“You know, all the other girls think you're real frigid, Annie. But, I don't think that's true.” 

Her breath hitches. Why is he doing this to her, why now? 

“I just think you need someone to warm you up.”

He kisses her with an open mouth, keeps teasing her with his hand. She's dying. 

Actually fucking dying. 

* * *

She didn't think he was that strong, all skinny arms and pointy hip bones, but he just about scoops her up, arms under her legs. 

“Don't knock anything over,” she gasps, and he laughs at her.

“You're rather conscientious, aren't you? Don't worry about that, not now.”

The shelves shake when he's inside her; the glass rattles and she winces.

“Aren't you enjoying this?” he asks, frowning. 

“I'm scared,” she admits. 

He's warm against her own skin, fingers digging into her legs. She's tense as hell, wrapped around him so tight that she thinks she might be cutting off some of his oxygen. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks. 

Considerate bastard. 

She shakes her head. 

“Please, don't stop.” 

He gives her a confused glance, narrows his eyes, twists the corners of his mouth.

“If you insist.” 

He's good at this; she knows he must have done it before. He knows just how to thrust into her to make her gasp, trying her best not to scream; knows the right spot on her collarbone to run his tongue across, like he's playing with her, exploring every inch of her skin; knows how to kiss her right before she cries out. 

It occurs to her that most people must think he's some sort of sexless lab instrument, and the thought makes her laugh.

“What's so funny?” he asks.

“This,” she replies. “This is funny.” 

“You are a very confusing woman, did you know that?”

“And you're a very strange man.”

“Mmmhm.” He bites down on his lower lip, pushes himself further inside of her. “So I've been told.”

“Do you fuck all of your lab assistants?” she asks, emboldened. 

“Oh God, no.” He's grinning. 

“Just the pretty ones?”

“This isn't something I make a habit of.” He's barely able to force the words out, he's breathing so heavy. 

She thinks he's lying, but she doesn't ask more, because he doesn't seem quite up for small talk. He's about to finish, she's pretty sure. 

When he does, he smiles at her and sets her down, shakes out his arms like they're sore. They get dressed quickly. She hopes nothing is inside out.

And when they get out of the closet, agar plates long forgotten, he looks her up and down. 

“So, do you want to get dinner sometime?”

She starts laughing, and before she knows it, she's in hysterics. 

“You're something else, Dr. Birkin.” 


End file.
